


Discordant Chaos

by mznaughty01



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Animalistic, Dominance, Explicit Language, Introspection, Jealous Derek, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Out of Character, POV Derek Hale, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Self-Lubrication, Sex with Sentient Animals, Unhealthy Relationships, What Was I Thinking?, Wolf Derek, Xeno, almost cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mznaughty01/pseuds/mznaughty01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus, we really are some kind of fucked up, aren't we, just completely toxic to each other.”</p><p>(Or the one where Derek and Stiles are assholes and Stiles gets Scott caught up in the middle of their shit. But it's all good, because Scott's an asshole, too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discordant Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something, because I haven't been able to write _anything_ for weeks now, and this is what came out. I don't even know anymore. But this probably isn't for everyone. No fluffy sweet feels here, but plenty of hard, angry, fucked up love. Oh, and sexytimes with wolf!Derek!

He’d been flat out told not to show up.

Cora had made the phone call herself this time around, rather than Erica. Just hours before. A short conversation that had ended with a graphic description of what the heel of one of her combat boots could—and would—do to his balls if he chose not to listen.

Rupture. Dislocation. Epididymitis.

She’d even sent a photo of that last one after hanging up. It hadn’t been pretty. And the caption she’d included assured that the condition would be every bit as painful as it looked for the entirety of the thirty seconds it took for Derek’s body to heal itself of the injury.

Regardless of the loving threat his little sister had delivered in the serious capacity as Discordant Chaos’s manager, there Derek was. Sitting at the bar in one of the more popular clubs that both werewolves and humans frequented. With three empty shot glasses in front of him that had once been filled with wolfsbane infused vodka. And a half empty beer he’d been nursing for the past half hour.

It was dark and crowded enough, the air filled with enough artificial smoke drifting down in lazy waves from the fog machines mounted in the naked roof beams above, that it would be difficult for his bandmates to recognize him should any actually decide to come confirm whether Derek had heeded the warning or not. None would, though. They all already knew he was there, could feel the nearness of their Alpha, no visual verification of his presence needed. They also wouldn’t come because it was common knowledge amongst the pack that Derek took orders from none of them. Cora’s demand that he stay away, just like the identical ones that had come from Erica so many times before in the past (identical right on down to the use of a boot, a knee high rather than a combat, as a nut crunching weapon), had been both a waste of his time and her breath.

Derek was going to do whatever Derek wanted.

And, tonight, what Derek wanted was to be present for Discordant Chaos’s show.

He was supposed to be on another break from the band, a self-imposed exile as they always were. And never inflicted because he needed an actual reprieve from the music. Derek loved the comforting weight of his Fender strapped across his chest, the flat of its back slanted over his stomach and lower hip in a way that just felt right, intimate. Loved the melody, the bass of the song, he could coax to life just by running the fingers of one hand up and down his instrument’s neck while the other plucked the tight strings strung lower down on its body.

When he needed to soothe himself, to be completely removed from reality for a while, it was music that Derek turned to. And, more often than not, there was only one person capable of forcing a need to go that deep. The same person responsible for Derek’s break.

His mate, his Omega. Who had just walked out onto the stage judging by all the whistles and applause as the room as a whole shifted away from Derek, towards the back of the club.

A fifty and a twenty tossed onto the bar’s glossy surface to settle his tab and tip, Derek grabbed his beer, then elbowed his way through the crowd. After issuing a few warning growls at a few too interested Alphas who tried to block his way, he stood front and center. He drained the last of his Corona, set his empty on the edge of the stage. Then met Stiles’s eyes.

Bright, filled with desire. But not surprise. Stiles knew not even big arguments like the one they’d just had a few days ago, the one where they’d been in each other’s faces, snarling, fangs out, chest-to-chest, toe-to-toe, neither backing down, the one that had resulted in Derek stalking out of practice, would ever be enough to keep Derek away.

Stiles winked, the gesture friendly and flirty. In no way did it mean that all was forgiven and forgotten (which made it a damn good thing, then, that Derek wasn’t looking for absolution). There was still hell to pay. Because Derek had been MIA since their argument. He’d missed every practice since then, every show, had avoided the hotel room he’d been sharing with Stiles, had refused to pick up any of Stiles’s calls, return any of his texts. In fact, Derek hadn’t talked to anybody at all in the time he’d been gone, had instead chosen to hole himself up in a cheap rundown motel far away from where the rest of his pack was staying, his guitar all the company he’d wanted or needed for the last few days. Cora’s call had been the first he’d answered. And he’d only done so because he’d been ready to and because he’d needed the details for tonight’s show as Discordant Chaos’s second week playing New York City would be in a different borough than the first and he hadn’t known the schedule of venues. 

Of course, only detail Cora had shared was her opinion that Derek was a _fucking asshole_. But that hadn’t stopped Derek from obtaining the time and location from another source. When the rest of the pack chose to hold their ground in a misguided attempt to protect the weak Omega from the big, bad Alpha, Boyd could still be counted on to remain level headed and come through. Because it was only Boyd who seemed to realize why it was, exactly, that Derek and Stiles worked in all their glorious screwed upness.

They were assholes of _equal_ proportion. Far as Boyd was concerned, they _deserved_ one another.

But all the others? They were fooled by Stiles.

Derek’s eyes trailed down Stiles, taking him all in, verifying what he’d known for a long while. Stiles got away with his bullshit because of his appearance.

He was almost the same height as Derek, just an inch or so shorter, but that’s where the similarities ended. Derek was an Alpha, had the build and muscles common to Alphas. Stiles, on the other hand, while leaner than most Omegas, whipcord thin almost, still appeared soft, vulnerable.

The sleeve of tattoos on both of his arms were looked on negatively by those werewolves who clung to the traditional thoughts regarding the ever more rare Omega and their role in society as the submissive, loving, nurturer who played the perfect counterpoint in a pack to the dominant Alpha. They just made Derek’s pack want to protect Stiles even more. Because that was Derek on Stiles’s left arm, in his wolf form with his eyes shut tight and head thrown back, howling up at the backdrop of the full moon. A scene which depicted Erica, Boyd, Cora and Isaac all in their wolf forms in a forest of pine trees took up the whole of his right arm. Symbols extended across both the back of Stiles’s shoulders and the top part of his chest in intertwined tendrils and swirls, a visual representation forever etched onto his Omega’s skin of Derek’s connection to his Betas.

The same tendrils and swirls also extended down from the bottom of the tattoo of Derek’s wolf, circling around all sides of Stiles’s lower arm and up onto the top of his hand, until they ended in a self-explanatory solid band of black ink around his ring finger.

As Stiles appeared before him right now, before the entire club, had been the cause of many arguments the past few weeks. The _sole_ cause of their latest argument. Yeah, technically Stiles had a point that he wasn’t baring any more than what he normally did.

But technically no longer fucking counted.

As proven by the very slight swell of Stiles’s belly just above the silver studs and spikes of the two belts wrapped around the top of the skin tight leather pants slung down low on his slim hips. Derek’s pup was in there—more than likely his _pups_ given that the Hales were prone to multiples such as Derek and Laura as well as their mother and Uncle Peter.

And contrary to what Stiles had said about Derek trying to force him to conform when he had demanded Stiles start covering up, that wasn’t what that had been about. That wasn’t what that had been about _at all_. What it had been about was the bad press that would fall on Discordant Chaos for the murder charge Derek would face if he lost control and ripped out the throat of a fellow Alpha, such as the two standing to either side of him right at that very moment.

Stiles’s full potential as an Omega, as the ideal mate for an Alpha, was right there for them all to easily see and desire. To _want_.

He represented something they stood a high chance of never having for themselves, unless they forcibly took it from another Alpha, as only an Omega could give birth to another Omega and, each generation, fewer and fewer were born. Finding an Omega who wasn’t already mated nowadays was almost an impossibility.

Their thick lust clogging up the air for what was Derek’s, for what was Derek’s _only_ , seriously toed the line of what he could handle.

The band’s current set-up, when added to the very little that Stiles had on, was even further proof that Stiles still didn’t understand Derek’s concerns...or it may have even been as simple as Stiles just not giving a fuck. Boyd was in the back, on drums. In front of him, just to the right playing lead guitar, was Erica. Several feet to the side of her, Isaac supported the rhythm on his own guitar. Just behind Stiles, serving as Derek’s replacement on bass and backup vocals, was Stiles’s best friend, Scott.

As lead singer, Stiles was up front (to be expected), the center of attention as all the lights were focused on him casting the rest of the stage, and band, in darkness (a strategic, calculated move, probably made just to piss Derek off). His hands were cupped around the microphone that was still in its stand as he alternated between singing and growling into it Discordant Chaos’s opening number for the night. Derek knew the song well, but not because it was one the band had officially recorded for an album or one that he had ever played.

 _Fuck you_ s littered the chorus and there was a strong undercurrent of rawness to the lyrics. This was Stiles’s song. For Derek. Its appearance tended to coincide with their bigger arguments and the subsequent breaks Derek forced himself to take.

The next hour passed with Derek never removing his eyes from Stiles as he moved across the stage, putting on a performance that was as spastic as ever, yet subdued in a way that Derek had never seen. And before Erica had finished playing the final note of the last song of the night, Stiles was down in a crouch at the very edge of the stage in front of where Derek stood, his foot knocking off the long discarded beer bottle. Derek’s hand automatically shot out and settled on Stiles’s waist to provide support as Stiles leaned forward, closer to him. Sweat damp flesh scalded Derek’s palm, causing his fingers to reflexively clench against Stiles’s side.

And warm air brushed Derek’s ear with the raspy request to, “Meet me back at our room, one hour.”

*

There was only one reason Scott McCall wasn’t dead yet.

And that was strictly because when Derek had entered the room it had been Scott on his knees down in front of Stiles, hand reaching out towards Stiles’s already unbuttoned pants, rather than the reverse. If Derek had seen _his Omega_ , _his Omega pregnant with his fucking child_ , in a submissive position to another Alpha...

Then he currently would be less fascinated with watching Scott’s face change from a pretty shade of red to an angry purple as a result of Derek holding him up against the wall using just the strength of his arm and Scott’s throat. And more concerned with how fast Uncle Peter could get to NYC and if he could assist with the disposal of a body.

“Derek, stop!” Stiles shouted from the vicinity of the bed he had yet to move away from.

Derek pressed harder, leaned in with his entire weight. He bared his teeth in a smile at the futile clawing of desperate fingers against his arm as Scott scrambled to free himself.

“Damn it, Derek, I said _stop_!”

With a frustrated growl, Derek held Scott there for another few seconds before finally releasing him and stepping back. The stress of dealing with his best friend’s potential death really couldn’t be good for Stiles or their baby.

It also probably wouldn’t be looked upon too fondly by any if Derek killed the first Alpha of this century to have attained his position not by birthright, but simply by the force of his will. Scott as an Alpha was a thing even more rare than Stiles as an Omega.

Scott sucked in deep gulps of air. Used the back of his hands to swipe away tears. Then looked up at Stiles through the sweaty fringe of hair that fell into his eyes in shaggy waves. “Dude, what the _hell_. Thought you said you and Derek were—”

“I lied.” Although his eyes were still on Scott, Derek could hear the pain as Stiles elaborated, “Just like all those times that you lied to me about you and Lydia.”

“That’s what—” The words were interrupted by a fit of coughing. When Scott finally got it under control enough to speak again, his expression was that of a wounded puppy. “That’s what this was about? We've been done for more than a year now.” Voice little, confused, wrecked, “And I thought you were okay? When you finally found out about us, I _asked_ you, Stiles. You said-you said that you were _okay_.”

“I am _now_. Since Derek. But for the two years before Derek, and even the first year with him, no, Scott, no matter what I said, I was _not_ okay with you being with the Alpha I had been in love with _since the third grade_. Oh my God, I was _so_ not okay with you being with her.”

Nothing about Stiles’s unrequited childhood crush was a surprise to Derek because for all the fighting he and Stiles did, they also talked. Listened to one another even if they didn’t necessarily always agree. And that was the reason why, when Scott’s eyes flicked to him for the briefest of moments, seeking out a weakness to exploit as any Alpha hoping to tempt away another’s Omega would, Derek showed no reaction.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott said, “I-I’m sorry, I really didn’t know.”

“And I’m an ass.” Stiles’s voice was weary. “For mixing you up in me and Derek’s shit. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

One of Scott’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But I guess something like this has been a long time in coming, huh?”

A genuine huff of laughter sounded. “Damn right it has.”

Scott edged towards the door. He opened it, readied it for his impending escape. “I was just a Beta, but you, Stiles? You’re an Omega. If Lydia had known you were interested, I mean truly known you were seriously interested, she would’ve been, too.”

“And that would’ve been a fucked reason for her to want me. A fucked reason for anyone to want me. I’m not just an Omega.”

“No, you’re not.” Looking straight at Stiles, ignoring Derek, Scott added, “And I know that. I’ve _always_ known that. I always _will_ know that. And I hope you never forget.”

Boy Wonder or not, Derek was going to—

The door slammed shut behind a rapidly departed Scott before Derek could get to it. And the sudden overwhelming smell of aroused Omega, ripe with proven fertility, permeated the room, stopping Derek from chasing after Scott any further.

He changed course mid-step. Shifted forms on seeing that Stiles had hastily skinned his leathers down his legs and kicked them off. Was now up on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, ass glistening and wet.

It was a blatant invitation for Derek to reassert his claim that Stiles had challenged. Not an apology by a long shot, there never were with Stiles, but a peace offering of sorts instead.

Immediately on reaching him, Derek licked up all the lubrication running down the insides of his bitch’s thighs. Savored the thickness of it on his tongue. It was a sweetness he would never be able to get enough of. He’d been addicted to it ever since his first taste.

Derek got up on the bed, draped himself over his bitch’s body. He carefully set his teeth to the back of the long, exposed neck in front of him, biting down into the tender flesh just the slightest bit to prevent struggles. Using his hold, and the occasional growl, he nudged and urged his bitch down into the exact position he wanted.

Once his bitch’s face was buried in the pillows bunched up between his forearms, ass tilted up in welcome, Derek slid his unsheathed dick inside. Hot, wetness surrounded him. Stiles's moans were immediate. Soft, needy.

Cognizant of his unborn young, Derek fucked his bitch. In long, hard strokes that soon had his knot expanding and locking him into place deep inside of that tight, sweet hole that would one day soon stretch wide to give birth to his pups. Many of them. Enough to form their own goddamn band if they wanted.

That thought was enough to punch Derek’s orgasm out of him, caused him to come so hard he filled his bitch up with his load. There was so much of it, it leaked right back out, around his knot, probably painted pale thighs he was currently unable to see in rivulets of white.

A lick of the abused skin of his bitch’s neck to let him know just how good he’d been, just how much and how well he’d pleased Derek, resulted in a sharp, choked off gasp. Followed by the rhythmic contracting of his bitch’s ass around Derek’s cock and knot. The sharp, salty smell of his bitch’s release filled the air.

Later, when Derek was once again human and laid out along the bed on his back, Stiles nestled close to his side, head tucked under Derek’s chin, Stiles said, “Jesus, we really are some kind of fucked up, aren’t we, just completely toxic to each other.”

It wasn’t an argument. Nor a complaint. Just a simple statement of fact.

The cold, hard truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me prompts! I can't promise to write anything at all if you do, but I feel like writing more at the moment. Need some food for my imagination :-)
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://mznaughty01.tumblr.com/).


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